


Sunday Song, Apricot Jam

by TinyWinterSnake



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, Unrealistic Portrayal of How Easy It Is To Randomly Go Out for Brunch on Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyWinterSnake/pseuds/TinyWinterSnake
Summary: Prompt #12 of the Marvel Rare Pare Events Meme 2020: "Captain Marvel and her longtime girlfriend Maria, something romantic and sweet or dramatic like sweeping Maria off her feet (literally)."Or, they celebrate Valentine's Day with affection, brunch, and two impromptu-acquisition cats.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39
Collections: Rare Pairs Events





	Sunday Song, Apricot Jam

**Author's Note:**

> I actually had no clue this was a rarepair lol, I love writing for these two

It’s strange: waking up slowly, shifting out of a small patch of drool, squinting blearily at patches of sunlight that have slipped through the fluttering curtains, shivering from the breeze because the sliding door'd been left open in their efforts to make it to the bed. 

It feels: alarming, to run through a series of plausible-but-improbable situations upon realization; monumental, to slip from Maria’s arms not for fear of being caught in the wrong bunk but for want of the restroom; warm, to curse the coldness of the tile, to slip back into the room and kneel at the side of the bed, to take an unflattering photo, cover it in layers of sparkling hearts and overly-saturated filters, and send it to their group chat captioned ‘Galentine's Day.’ 

It feels nice, Carol thinks, to make coffee in her underwear and smile into the mug as Maria shuffles in, crowds into her space, and deadpans “they’re lesbians, Carol.” 

She tilts her chin up to kiss her favorite spot: that small space where Maria’s ear begins to curve, where tiny hairs peek out from beneath her bonnet. She relishes in the breathy little laugh she gets, the way Maria tilts her head into her shoulder reflexively, the way she groans and swats her away when Carol puts on a throaty, vaguely-European accent and repeats the offending statement.

She’s back for more when Maria turns her back to rifle through the cabinets, no doubt searching for the skillet she never seems to put in the same place twice. 

“Let’s go to brunch,” she offers instead, mouthing at the tiny expanse of skin bared by the drooping neckline of an oversized t-shirt, fingers resting just beneath it’s hem, skirting teasingly over the taut muscle of her stomach.

“Where my captain goes, I will follow,” Maria returns mock-solemnly, smile tugging at the corners of her lips, thumbing over the back of Carol’s hand. She turns for a kiss, close-mouthed and lingering. “We should get ready then,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. The words barely fit the space between them; Carol chases her lips with a contemplative hum, fitting her hands just beneath the swell of Maria’s ass. It’s easy, then, to break the kiss, grip a little tighter, and lift her from the ground; the familiar, delighted noise she huffs out retroactively soothes the ache of sore muscles. It’d be wrong to say this isn’t a primary motivation for that last rep. It’s harder, now, to resist the lips on her neck and walk them straight back to the bedroom; the walls are sturdy and tempting, but the appeal of fogged glass and streaking handprints is greater. 

It doesn’t take long for steam to cloud the room, casting a dreamy, old-romantic atmosphere over the simple porcelain and tile. Maria’s skin feels responsive and inviting beneath her fingertips: prickling with goosebumps where her touch goes, becoming increasingly slick with beads of sweat the longer they stay trading slow, greedy kisses against the counter. Her own skin must feel hot to the touch, tender and swollen where Maria thumbs between her thighs, taut and trembling beneath the hand resting just below her ribs. 

Eventually they make it to the shower, giggling and rubbing at red spots where the granite had dug in, knowing better than to make any sort of pact to not do it again. It’s not that their favorite alternative is any better: back against the wall, legs hiked up over shoulders, cursing the cheap suction mat that digs into their knees. The water pounds ceaselessly against Carol’s head, its sound and Maria’s thighs wrapped around her ears swallowing the sweet, low sounds she craves, but there’s a hand gripping pleasantly tight in her hair and she can feel Maria’s heaving, desperate breaths where she’s got a hand splayed over her stomach.

After, she massages deep conditioner into Maria’s hair, guiding her fingers through the tangles the way she’d learned so long ago and delivering a passionate dissertation on how toast can, and should, in fact, be eaten with crunchy peanut butter. She’d eat either, of course, but it’s worth the effort to watch Maria scrunch her nose in distaste and launch into a counter argument about competing textures. 

They dress quickly, motivated primarily by a confident-turned-horrified glance at the time and the desire to arrive in time for bottomless bellinis. Maria laces their fingers together and starts up a small swing as they walk, smiling small and content to herself.

“I know we said no gifts,” she starts, looking somewhat sheepish as they slide into the a, “but it was practically my civic duty to buy this.” 

She lays a long, textured box on the table. It’s hideous, wrapped in what seems to be a patchwork of wrapping paper scraps that are so discordant it’s likely to bring on a haunting by Isaac Newton himself, and the bow looks remarkably like the twin to a pair of Carol’s colored laces that have been missing for over a week. She squints suspiciously but Maria smiles, shit-eating and unrepentant, and gestures impatiently. 

Inside, there’s a squat figurine of indiscernible material. It seems to have once been a clown, except it’s got a cowboy hat perched atop its head, is missing one of its original legs which has been replaced by - another suspicious glance - a clumsily molded red boot, and sporadically glitters where the original paint chipped and was replaced. 

“This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever fucking seen,” she chokes out finally. “I love it. Where did you even find him?”

“Antique store,” Maria says smugly, flipping open her menu as though she doesn’t always order the same thing. 

She shoves her feet into Maria’s space under the table and beams at her.

They eat slowly, touching hands like their first date and bickering good naturedly over hot sauce like it’s their fiftieth. It’s easy to relax in this tiny corner of the cafe, loud and crowded as it is, and they laugh plentifully; perhaps a bit too loudly, a couple of bellinis in, but no one gives them a second glance and their waitress seems more friendly than exasperated. They leave a large tip anyway and take slices of pie to-go. Maria insists that she’s too full to even think about food but opens the carton as soon as they’ve stepped back out onto the street, groaning theatrically around a mouthful of strawberry-rhubarb.

They take the long route back to their apartment.

They stop just once, for a shark of a teenager who, upon seeing the way Maria stops to coo over the two kittens crawling around in a cardboard box, transforms from vaguely annoyed and edging on desperate to endearing and more solidly desperate. It was already as good as guaranteed, but seeing the wide smile stretching Maria’s lips as she gathers up an armful of yowling, angry black fur makes her step forward to pluck its quiet, multi-colored sibling up as well. 

Maria’s cat quiets when it notices that it’s not alone, and it lasts for a few blissful seconds before it’s crying again and trying to wiggle out of her grip. She ends up hammocking them both in the bottom of her sweater while Carol taps away at her phone screen, pulling up small pet stores near their building and writing out lists of supplies. 

“We should name them, you know,” she mumbles when they’ve gotten back, cursing under her breath as she stares into the refrigerator before going back to her list, “how do you feel about Jackie and Wilson?”

“Boring, what about Mashed Potatoes?” 

“Both of them?”

“No, just the black one.”

“You’re an agent of chaos, just like your cat” she says flatly, albeit too fondly for effect. “Jackie and Mashed Potatoes.” 

“It sounds like a failed experimental rock project,” Maria snorts. “It's perfect. And this is a marriage, that’s our cat.”

“I don’t see a ring on my finger,” she retorts indignantly, flapping one hand for emphasis. 

“Would you like to?” Maria asks softly. 

Her breath hitches. She really, really would.

**Author's Note:**

> If you thought that I, a home of sexual, was going to write femslash with zero references to our lord and savior Bogman, you were wrong. 
> 
> Brought to you by an actual date I had, where we wound up at an antique store with relics from the ghost of plantations past, and I bought a truly hideous shot glass.
> 
> U can hmu @ tinywintersnake.tumblr.com to scream abt marvel if you want


End file.
